


Shut your mouth (because these words will speak themselves)

by Analinea, demonicweirdo



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Getting Together, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, loss of voice, spell gone wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2016-12-06
Packaged: 2018-09-06 21:42:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8770432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Analinea/pseuds/Analinea, https://archiveofourown.org/users/demonicweirdo/pseuds/demonicweirdo
Summary: Stiles uses a spell to help the Pack and it backfires in the worse way possible. Isaac's here to help.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title from You said okay by Flatsound
> 
> This was a really fun adventure! I hope you lot like it :)   
> Thanks for the collab, Frog!

Isaac started noticing hiccups of moments after Stiles had saved their lives.

It was a brief event - the whole pack was present, unnecessarily. A rival pack, wanting to control the untamable forces of the nemeton by killing its pack, and the abandoned mall in some sick, twisted coincidence.

Isaac relives the moment each time he thinks of it. It’s  _ only  _ a moment - the weedy Alpha lunging towards Scott, Stiles shoving Isaac out of the way - and then they all fell to their knees.

Vibrations pulsed through the ground around Stiles. He stood tall and dignified, both packs brought to their knees by an unshakable and unknowable force. Isaac gritted his teeth against the claustrophobia it induced and looked up at Stiles. Out of all the emotions crowding him - fear, confusion, anger - his trust for him won out. Whatever he was doing, to whatever end, was to protect his friends.

The force yielded as quickly as it had begun. Stiles sunk to his knees. Isaac had made an aborted movement to crouch down beside him, to ensure he was okay, before he smelled it -  _ humans _ .

Stiles had stripped the pack of their monthly affliction, rendering them defenseless. He hadn’t uttered a word, hadn’t lifted a hand. He was impossible, imposing, intimidating.

Stiles, exhausted and triumphant on the cracked tile ground, was too big to fit his skin. His smile stretched too wide and his laugh rang too thin with hysteria.

That’s when Isaac started noticing that time seemed to skip like an old record.

 

He’s looking at Stiles now; Stiles, who hasn’t said a word in days, who hides himself behind sad eyes and desperate gestures.

The truth had been sent in a group text:  **everything i say comes true. dont expect me to talk. Its bcos of the spell**

Lydia gives Stiles an assessing eye. “If you don’t use imperative-” She cut off by Stiles shaking his head almost frantically.

“You don’t trust yourself,” Isaac translates. When Stiles meets his eyes, it’s for a split second, and the understanding between them races through Isaac’s veins like ice. “So you won’t say anything.”

They’re packed into Deaton’s surgery room, and Isaac can hardly breathe for all of the tension in the room. Malia’s cagey presence constantly puts him on edge (an edge that Stiles’ voice usually talks him off).

“The spell you used,” Deaton starts, his eyes intent and focused on Stiles. “Can you tell me what it was?”

Stiles ruffles through his backpack and brings out an old book, heavy with dust and powerful words. Malia sneezes.

Deaton flips to the bookmarked page, but Isaac is watching Stiles as the man reads through it. 

Stiles had always been good at adapting, and Isaac had watched him grow into something that  _ could _ keep up with wolves and evil foxes and shadow warriors. He had grown into something more than human, but now Stiles, who is nervously chewing his fingernails like he would do before each lacrosse game, is painfully human in this moment, guarded and anxious, stress and frustration rolling off him naturally.

Isaac knows what happens when humans run with wolves.

Stiles catches his eye again, and he opens his mouth slowly, before shutting it and biting his lip. 

“Are you okay?” Isaac asks quietly. He doesn’t know exactly what Stiles had said out loud, what impossible things he had made, but he thinks on all the blips in his memory and can only guess.

Stiles looks at him for a long moment, and Isaac can feel his frustration, but then Deaton looks up from the book.

“Morrell has done this spell before,” he says quietly. His impassive, monotonous voice scrapes at Isaac’s patience. There’s no guilt or sorrow in there.  _ He _ was the one teaching Stiles to defend himself.  _ He _ should have stopped this.

Derek and Scott lean forward at the same time. “Well, obviously Morrell doesn’t have this problem,” Scott replies (Isaac is satisfied at the irritation in his voice). “So call her up, get her to tell us how to fix it.”

Deaton hesitates. “It’s not that simple.”

Isaac scoffs. “It never is,” he mutters.

“What do you mean, ‘it’s not simple’? It sounds pretty straightforward to me,” Derek adds darkly. 

“Where did she even go? We all know she didn’t go on  _ sick leave _ -”

“I don’t even know who we’re talking about,” Kira butts in. Malia points at her and nods an agreement.

The usual symphony of assents and dissents within the pack seem dull without Stiles, who’s sitting on one of the tables and examining a bottle of morphine with forced concentration.

Deaton commands attention with a raised hand. “That’s the problem. I don’t know where she is.”

Stiles’ grip on the bottle tightens.

“Are we sure we can trust her anyway?” Lydia points out. “She had ins with Deucalion. She was our guidance counselor, for god's’ sake.”

Isaac walks over to where Stiles is sitting and gently pulls the morphine bottle from his hand. Their fingers brush briefly, and they stare at each other for a long moment. Isaac wonders what Stiles has said, wonders what he regrets.

He turns to face the rest of them, but leans against the table so that their shoulders brush.

Derek is snarling at Deaton with harsh words and an aggressive tone. “ _ You _ gave Stiles the book,  _ you _ fix the problem.” Isaac thinks he inherited his mistrust of the veterinarian from his former alpha (though it’s more likely that Deaton just inspires mistrust with his vague answers and riddles).

With that, Derek storms out dramatically, and the rest of them are left in awkward silence.

“Um, I’d just like to say… I mean, it was a pretty badass spell, and it saved our asses,” Kira says hesitantly. “So, uh, thanks, Stiles. Sorry it went badly for you, though.”

Stiles grins at her, giving her the thumbs up, but his other hand is clenched in a fist, as though to keep himself from talking.

Isaac doesn’t have to wonder what it’s like to be afraid of what you say; he understands consequences better than most.

 

 

Stiles looks at his ceiling, hands crossed behind his head, music blaring as loud as he can without making the neighbors call the cops; his dad has enough to worry about without a noise complaint. It's just that he can't stand the silence anymore.

He's thinking -when is he not, really?- but somehow not being able to talk even when he's alone makes the never ending stream of thoughts more...more vociferous (he masochistically spent an entire day looking up words he couldn't say anymore in the dictionary, before a pale hand took it from his tight grasp and blue eyes looked at him worriedly. He finds himself staring at words these days, on every label his eyes fall onto).

He never really understood people capable of speaking their hearts. I'm sorry's and I love you's, thanks, they never came easy to him. He talks more than Scott, but always says less in the emotional area of things. It always felt like giving up a part of himself. Maybe he should have asked Scott how he did it, what it meant to him. Or maybe there's no point anyway.

Stiles could technically say things about himself. Like all spells -or side effects of spells, in this case- it doesn't work on himself. He could say, “Yeah, and I'm the Queen of England”, and he wouldn't find himself on Elizabeth II's throne (would he be her, or would he be queen Stiles the First, he wonders). But it's better to stop talking altogether, rather than slip up and cause another–

He doesn't want to think about it.

He finds himself thinking about Isaac instead. It brings him back to all the things he can't change for himself; not for lack of trying, in the beginning. He tried to make his attention deficit go away, he tried to make some of his scars disappear, to unlove–

Yeah, another thing he doesn't want to think about. There's a lot of those these days.

Stiles sighs and gets up to turn down the music. It's time for him to go make dinner for his dad. The Sheriff takes this new situation like every other supernatural one: he mostly avoids the subject. He awkwardly fills the silences in the house by talking for the two of them, so much that he gives away bits and pieces of current investigations without meaning to. Shame that Stiles doesn't really care about it, now.

He opens every cupboard, even those with the plates and glasses in it, but finds close to no food. He almost curses but catches himself just before the words are out of his mouth. He hates going out lately, it seems like too much, being around people that expect him to talk. He can't do that if he's alone without at least someone from the Pack.

But he doesn't want to depend on them either. Stiles gets his phone out and stares at it for a long time to try and decide what’s best. In the screen, he can see the memories of the fight. It's the same light; a golden, end of the day light, that catches the surface of the phone.

He remembers how the night started. They thought it would be easy -after dark druids and a thousand years old spirit and an Alpha Pack- to defeat these power hungry werewolves. They realized how wrong they were far too late.

Where Deucalion went for Derek and Scott, seeing the rest of them as potential leverage, the new Pack went for each one of them. It was submit or die, no mercy, no real need for new betas.

Where the Nogitsune went for strife and chaos, acting alone and behind the scenes, this Pack was like the Roman war machine: well-oiled and trained, crushing everything in its way with perfect battle strategies.

They were losing. Stiles, standing a little outside of the main fight with Lydia, the both of them looking for the right time to use one of their abilities without ending with their friends as collateral, had been raking his brain for a spell that could help.

He was Deaton's student, making incredible progress with his powers, but the spells he already knew how to use and had practiced were too dangerous to throw when Scott and the others were so close to the enemy. And the enemy was close enough to tear the McCall Pack apart.

He remembers looking through every spell he memorized without having time to test them yet, the moment he thought about the one that could save all of them -and, god, they needed saving  _ now _ because all that blood on Scott was only his own- remembers taking a deep breath and pushing deep inside the words  _ side effects _ .

_ To use wisely and with enough training,  _ and  _ more of a curse than a blessing _ .

The ground shook and he felt his spark pool at the tip of his fingers, warm and pulsing, and then the release of it, an explosion of power. The enemy's life force, their heartbeats, the air entering and leaving their lungs, he had felt everything. He had felt their strangeness, the thread of magic weaving between their cells, into their souls, keeping the human and the wolf together and allowing them to change from one to the other, to be one and the other at the same time. He ripped it from their bodies.

The rest is fuzzy, in his memory. A triumphant grin, maybe, looking at the others looking back at him in disbelief, wonder, a little fear. The feeling of victory.

And then he opened his mouth and ruined everything. Nothing new about it, he thinks bitterly. He fixed things up as much as he could, he knows it's still wonky, not exactly right. It never will be. But it's something.

Stiles looks at his phone and thinks that he just needed to decide whether or not to send this text -he can't call anymore, obviously, and he knows the Pack keeps their phones close enough to never miss his texts so he uses it wisely- not lose himself again in memories. It makes him chuckle, feeling a bit stupid. He unlocks his screen.

 

 

Isaac stares at the message on his screen. 

**I need food, drop whatever totally interesting thing youre doing and pick me up asap**

The text makes sense: its request is sensible and clear. Isaac takes a second to identify the issue: it’s  _ Stiles _ . 

He’s unused to his voice with its usual cadence and tone. But when he reads the text over and over, he hears Stiles’ smile through his demand, his charming demeanour that hasn’t made an appearance in too long.

Isaac has started getting used to short, vague texts from him. As though cutting his voice off meant cutting himself off from any form of communication to express himself. Stiles relies on words like Isaac has learned to rely on his claws; they’re a defense mechanism, they’re his most-used form of attack (they’re also used gently, to build things instead of tear them down, to strengthen and guide).

He reads through the text again and decides that he’s being ridiculous. He sends back an obligatory  **on my way** and grabs the keys to Derek’s car. He’ll deal with the repercussions later. 

By the time Isaac pulls up in front of the Sheriff’s house, he’s half-convinced that Stiles sent him that text by accident, that it was intended for Scott. There are moments of understanding between them, moments where their eyes connect and everything falls away, moments where Isaac wants so much from Stiles and he can believe - for a second - that he can see it reflected in Stiles eyes. 

But these moments don’t extend beyond personal perception. There’s no evidence beyond the shortness of breath and the irregular beat of Stiles’ heart that he feels the same. It could be indigestion.

That’s the thought that keeps Isaac stuck to the Stilinski’s doorstep. But he shakes it off and reaches for the door-handle - he’s never extended the courtesy of knocking for Stiles before.

Stiles’ eyebrows are quirked in annoyance when he sees Isaac come in, and Isaac doesn’t bother hiding his grin.

“You know you have your own car, right?”

Stiles gives him a sarcastic look - if looks can be described as such. Isaac can’t even imagine what he would say if he could say anything.

“Well I stole Derek’s car, so I’m blaming you.” After bring out an amused huff - far from his usual joyful burst of surprised laughter but Isaac takes his victories where he can.

“Your chariot awaits,” he announces, gesturing to the door. Stiles brushes past him. Isaac doesn’t mean to but he inhales the moment he passed him. Frustration, stress, fear. The first two are expected, but the third?

Isaac catches his arm. “Hey.”

Stiles stops but doesn’t look at him.

“ _ Stiles _ . Look at me,” he insists. 

Stiles hesitates. He meets Isaac’s eyes with a guarded expression.

“Are you okay?” The moment the words leave his lips Isaac sees Stiles raising his eyebrows, another sarcastic look. His fingers are clenched into a frustrated fist.

“I mean…” He brushes his free hand through his hair and lets out a breath. “What did you say that makes you so afraid? What did you do?”

Stiles yanks his arm free and gives Isaac a glower, but Isaac can see how shaken up he is and lets him walk out the door, following after a moment of watching him.

The drive to the store is silent until Stiles opens the glove box and pulls out a James Blunt CD case. He shows it to Isaac and there’s a moment between them before Isaac snickers and Stiles smirks.

“I-” Stiles starts, his voice scratchy with disuse. It barely constituted a word. It was a sound, an inhale with substance and intent, and Isaac feels it shock ice into his veins. He keeps his eyes forward while he parks.

“What was that?” he asks, his voice too casual. He knows it’s cruel, but he wants to hear Stiles’ voice again he didn’t understand just how much he  _ needs  _ it.

Stiles takes a deep breath in and punches Isaac on the shoulder. His face is pale, but his eyes are light and his body is relaxed with the relief of stopping himself before he said something. Did something. Made something happen.

Isaac’s ears chase the fading resonance of the first sound he had heard from Stiles in too long, but he manages to raise an eyebrow and say, “I shouldn’t be surprised that you almost broke your silence to make fun of Derek’s tastes in music. He’ll be flattered.”

Stiles scoffs in response, and everything is back to normal. Isaac hates how it has become normal.

When they walk into the store, Isaac hadn’t anticipated how  _ annoying _ it would be. Stiles picks food in an unorganised disarray of healthy and unhealthy categories. When Isaac grabs something off the shelf - he’s pretty sure it was just peanut butter - Stiles yanks it out of his hands and gives him a disapproving frown while dropping a packet of doritos in the basket.

It’s infuriating, and Isaac has no qualms telling Stiles this, but he still ducks his head when he’s awarded a smile for grabbing the lettuce. 

Their hands touch when they reach for a loaf of bread (like they’re in some cliched drama movie) and Isaac’s fingers twitch with the overwhelming need to grab Stiles’ hand. Something in him needs to be reassured that Stiles is still  _ there _ sometimes. So much of his presence is made up of words.

Isaac’s phone vibrates, and he opens a message from Scott.  **Are you with stiles? We found morrell. Sort of.**

 

 

They're at Deaton's again. The vet looks shaken up, which is so unusual Stiles can see how it unsettles the wolves. 

“What happened?” Isaac asks as soon as they're both in the examination room, apparently the last to arrive which shouldn't piss Stiles off as much as it does. He should feel grateful that all his friends are feeling that invested in helping him, but now it feels like he's the last to know something that's  _ his _ concern.

“Morrell, she's uh...,” Scott says before looking at the ground for a second. It means it's bad, Scott hates delivering bad news. He looks back up and starts again, “Your dad called with a lead, yesterday, we followed it–” he stops abruptly and all the weres in the room turn sharply to look at Stiles. Kira and Lydia look a little lost as they follow the others and stare at Stiles too.

It makes him feel really uncomfortable, being the center of attention like this. For all he's loud -used to- he likes being in the shadows because that's where you can do what need to be done without anyone noticing.

It must make whatever smell the other noticed stronger, because Scott makes a pained noise. Stiles guesses it must be hurt, guilt, maybe a little bit of self-hatred if this kind of thing can be smelled. 

He understands why his dad would go to Scott first, it's been like this for years. Trusting Scott more than his own son. Stiles wouldn't trust himself either, so he gets it, really. It still hurts, every time he gets more evidence of the fact.

Unconsciously or not, Isaac steps closer to him, his shoulder brushing against Stiles'. It makes him calm down a little, and Scott's face does something weird before he adds, “He just didn't want to get your hopes up, in case this didn't work out.” Stiles nods.

“We tracked her to a small town in Nevada, thanks to Danny. Apparently Lydia kept in touch,” and the hint of reproach is directed at the girl, who shrugs; it doesn’t shock Stiles, she told him about it. “But...,” Scott hesitates, and Stiles wishes the guy would just let it out. It makes him so frustrated to have to wait in silence instead of pushing the words out of his friend like he used to.

“She's in a coma,” Derek finishes for his Alpha.

Stiles feels...nothing. Numb. There's a buzzing sound in his ears that makes it hard to hear anything after these last words and he finds himself leaning on the back of a chair without remembering walking up to it. He's not really surprised or disappointed: deep down he knew he would never be so lucky as to have an easy fix, or a fix at all.

His mind is already far away and thinking about where to learn ASL when he hears his name being called. The worry in Isaac's eyes right in front of his own tells him it probably wasn't the first time he tried to get his attention.

“Are you okay?” Scott asks, and Stiles starts laughing. It's an ugly sound because it's not happy, but damn he's so tired of people asking when they never want the truth anyway. He lied for so long about being fine, but so far no one ever called him up on it. He wants to scream, he want to say something so bad he could scratch his throat open just to let the words out. He just nods.

“Bullshit,” Isaac spits. His angry tone shouldn't warm Stiles' heart, but it does. Stiles looks around at the concerned faces and slowly the walls stop feeling like they're falling on him. He didn't even realize he was feeling like they were.

Derek glowers, he probably heard the lie but he's so awkward he wouldn't have known how to say anything–the real reason behind his mysterious attitude, Stiles knows.

Stiles finds himself once more stared at by the whole pack. This time he doesn't hate it: it grounds him. Being invisible has its advantages, but then Stiles can't deny that he spent countless nights wide awake, wondering if he even existed. He used to fill the emptiness left by his non-presence with words, words, words until he felt like he was  _ there _ . Now that he can't do that, the eyes on him are a relief. He is real. 

Deaton's been silent the entire time, and Stiles stares at the man to distract himself from the anxiety still coursing through his veins. The vet looks back, and suddenly there's something human to him, like never before. He's worried and sad and Stiles can tell that he hates it. Hates that he still cares about his sister when he knows what she did–working with Deucalion and threatening to kill a teenager. Love doesn't go away just because we want it to.

The pack is debating at the edge of Stiles consciousness. His hearing focuses back on it just in time for Malia to be as delicate as she always is.

“Can't Stiles just tell her to wake up?”

And just like that the walls feel like they're pressing on Stiles again and on top of being unable to say anything, he stop seeing and hearing, and it terrifies him. He's alone and scared and no one is here to help him and he's in darkness and memories start playing in his mind eyes.

He just wanted to make things better, use this fucked up power for something good. He should have known that he couldn't do anything right, it's been like this since he was born. What a disappointment he must have been for his mom. 

Over and over again in front of his eyes, he sees people dying because of him until he could figure out the words that would take things almost back to how they should be.

He can't talk, terrified of slipping up and killing all of them again, and now he can't even breathe. It's better this way, he thinks. And then he passes out. 

 

 

Isaac would like to say that he caught Stiles in his arms as he feel to the ground, if only to tease him with, but he was beaten to it by Kira darting forward and catching him under the shoulders. 

Scott pushes Isaac out of the way in his rush to confirm what his senses are telling him - that Stiles passed out, that he merely fainted, that he’s fine. But it’s only when Scott’s shoulders slump in relief that Isaac can let go of the breath that caught in his throat when Stiles stumbled, when Stiles fell.

“Is he okay?” Malia asks, her head tilted in casual concern. She takes in Scott carrying Stiles to the metal table with interest, but not emotion.

Isaac grabs at Stiles’ hand as it falls, limp and useless, over the edge of the table. His fingers burn when he curls them around Stiles’ fingers.

A slight pulse of pain shocks through Isaac’s veins, but he doesn’t pull back. “His skin is hot,” he tells them, keeping his eyes on Stiles’ face as though it would divulge answers to questions that Isaac couldn’t voice. He touches his forehead lightly, and it turns into more of a caress than a way to check Stiles’ body temperature.

Someone shuffles their weight from foot to foot behind him, and he hears Lydia clear her throat, and he jerks away, his fingers reluctant to relinquish their grasp. He pulls their hands apart and straightens.

Everyone is looking at him, some with raised eyebrows and some with pursed lips. Scott looks as if he’s on the brink of opening his mouth and saying something.

“Uh, you know - I was just - um, checking his…” Isaac gestures vaguely to Stiles’ sleeping body without looking at it; his cheeks are burning. “You know, checking he’s… okay.”

Scott nods slowly. “Okay,” he replies quickly. “That’s… yeah.”

There’s another moment of silence, and Isaac tugs on the end of his scarf, looking down from the enquiring eyes that are focused on him. 

Deaton moves first, unconcerned with the tension in the room, uncaring for anything but his latest patient. 

Isaac knows they want an explanation, they want him to fill the blanks between A to B, A being harsh words and and remorseless taunts, B being tender touches and reassuring glances. 

But Isaac isn’t ready for that small piece of  _ something _ between them to be exposed to the light; he wants to keep it covered and private. He doesn’t owe them this part of himself; he’d give them everything else but  _ that _ .

“So what’s wrong with him now?” Lydia asks. She glances at Isaac for a moment, and Isaac is used to her eyes sliding past him dismissively; he takes comfort in it now.

Deaton clicks his flashlight off and lets go of Stiles’ eyelid. “The emotional turmoil of recent events, as well as the draining nature of the curse, has affected him more than I had anticipated.”

“What do you mean, ‘the draining nature of the curse’?” Lydia steps forward with this. “Why didn’t you mention this earlier?”

“If everything that he says happens, if he can alter reality to that extent, it will draw on his own energy. I thought he could handle it, but obviously not.” The crease between Deaton’s brow encourages a sick feeling to settle in Isaac’s stomach.

“So if he keeps…” Isaac can’t finish the sentence.

“If he continues to alter reality, he may drain himself completely.”

There’s a moment between then and now, and Isaac feels every part of it; he’s aware of Stiles’ quickening breathing, speeding heartbeat, Scott’s quiet exhale, Lydia’s shaky inhale. 

It’s a moment that Isaac is completely still, before Stiles opens his eyes and opens his mouth. He darts forward before he can think twice, and his palm is hot on Stiles’ lips.

Stiles’ eyes widen, and his mouth is frozen, half-open with some word he isn’t conscious of yet.

They maintain eye contact for a moment longer before Stiles is shoving his hand away and sitting up. He still opens his mouth, but no noise comes out, and he shuts it despairingly.

His frustration and desperation are all Isaac can smell. Stiles just wants to  _ talk _ , to express himself. 

Stiles can talk himself out of every bad situation in the book. It’s  _ his _ weapon as much as claws and fangs are Isaac’s. The ability to string a series of words into a shield, a knife, a diversion.

Like this - with his voice taken from him - he’s raw, he’s vulnerable and exposed. He spins lies in the way that people take breaths. To survive, to wrangle one more day from the world. If he can’t do that, how does he protect himself?

Isaac makes his decision. He puts his hand in Stiles’ hand, he squeezes it with intent to an emotion that doesn’t need words. 

“We’ll figure it out,” Isaac murmurs. He knows everyone is watching them - again - but he doesn’t let go. “You’re going to be fine.”

Stiles doesn’t do anything for a second but look down at Isaac’s hand in his. He looks up, meets Isaac’s eyes with surprising brightness (a brightness that Isaac hadn’t seen in too long), before he nods and squeezes back, a light pressure that Isaac feels down to his bones.

He turns then, at the rest of the room, and Isaac frees his hand.

He takes his phone out, and everyone waits with bated breath as his fingers fly across the screen with practised speed and ease. 

Their phones chime a few seconds later.

**I’ll do it.**

 

 

“ No,” comes in a chorus of males voices. None of the girls say anything: Lydia is showing her disagreement in her posture but she knows it's his call to make; Kira's too shy; and Malia probably doesn't really care that much about discussion.

Deaton keeps silent, too, but looks considering. Stiles can see Derek glowering at the vet.

“ You didn't hear, Stiles, but you're draining yourself,” Scott says in a pleading tone. That must be why Stiles is so fucking exhausted all the time, even chronic insomnias never got him out of breath after climbing up the stairs to his room like this.

“ I don't know what you did before,” Derek finally grits out, “but you can't do it again.”

Stiles looks down at Isaac's hand resting so close to his own. He can't engage in an argument right now -even if he had words at his disposition, he's doesn't have the energy- but he hopes his body language is enough to convey how much this isn't anyone’s but his choice to make.

He knows it's risky. But he doesn't really care about the consequences of changing Morrell’s reality, what it'll do to her. Not like when he tried to– 

He needs to face what he did at some point, and he looks at Isaac next to him because somehow in the last months he became his comfort and the quieting of his mind. Tonight, Stiles, thinks, tonight I'll tell him. I'll write it for him.

So Stiles knows it might end badly, especially for Morrell -if he doesn’t die, that is- but he's selfish in that moment. He wonders; would Scott do it, if he knew it could hurt her? But that’s the thing, isn’t it, Stiles is not Scott. He doesn't have the same morals and that's the problem, that's why he was the possessed one.

Because he's capable of this: holding a grudge against a woman that worked with Deucalion under the pretense of maintaining the balance (and he hates that it's the emissaries go-to excuse so they can stand by and do as little as possible to help) and that puts her on the long list of people he wouldn’t get out of a burning building.

She also threatened to kill him but he can let this one go; after all, he would have done the same. No, what he can’t excuse is all the people that got hurt while she watched -Stiles thinks of Erica, Boyd, Cora even.

So he doesn’t care about her, okay, but he also can't face the prospect of being like this his whole life.

Losing his voice is one thing, one he could have learned to deal with because if he's one thing it's adaptable, and millions of people deal with mutism. He knows the pack would learn ASL so he could keep on sassing them and share his brilliant plans. Also, he doesn't necessarily need words do to magic.

But this is more than that, it's the fact that he  _ could _ still talk but being terrified to do so. He could end the world sleep talking. This is not a life he wants to live.

He get an idea from his internal turmoil, and it's pretty telling that before he can even reach for his phone Isaac voice's rings out.

“ Isn't there a spell that could heal her?” He sounds both begging and hopeful.

“ We would need to know the exact cause of her current state,” Deaton slowly shakes his head, “and given that she's a magic user it could be anything. The wrong spell could kill her. It would be wise to wait for her to wake up on her own time,” he finishes like he knows they won't listen to him. He knows they won't wait.

Stiles hops down the examination table and shakes off Isaac's hand that grabbed his arm to make sure he wouldn't stumble, takes the piece of paper that gives the address of the hospital Morrell's in. He storms out of the clinic, ignoring the shaking of his hands and legs, the cold under his skin.

The pack follows, leaving a tired vet behind. Stiles gets in the Jeep and hears Isaac telling the others to wait before he climbs in the passenger seat. They stay in silence for a moment, and Stiles thinks that he needs to go before he thinks about this too much, but first he needs to make sure Isaac knows.

He gets his phone out and starts. He starts with how he didn't realize at first, thinking that as with everything else it needed to be said with intent. Luckily, barely half a day passed before he understood, when he said “Man, I wish these were curly fries,” to his sad plate of pasta, alone in his house.

He had blanched, then smiled, then ate two fries. They just...they tasted wrong. Like they were trying to be fries but couldn't entirely, with an aftertaste of mold.

He still didn't really understand. He thought that, okay, so it didn't make things better, he just needed to watch his mouth, right? But the temptation was too big, he figured that food wasn't representative of the power's potential.

So he said “Scott never got bitten,” and that's how it started. That's how he found himself one night alone at home, hit by grief and an onslaught of memories that weren't there before. That's how he woke up in a world where Scott died of cancer and Peter bit someone else, and death, death, death like dominos, and all he could do was cry until morning came, curled up on his floor, and then try to make things better.

Isaac pales from where he's reading Stiles' text as he writes it, and he doesn't ask more details. Stiles doesn't look at him, couldn't stand to see horror or pity or fear.

But then he feels Isaac's hand on his chin, making him turn his head so they’re facing each other. He can see that the Pack is gone, probably waiting somewhere close. It must kill Scott to not be the one in the car right now. Stiles focuses back on Isaac's face. Just before it blurs with the tears in his eyes, Stiles can see that there's no horror, pity or fear there. He doesn't know if he's relieved or disappointed. He would deserve it.

 

 

The printed words on the screen keep replaying whenever Isaac closes his eyes, like some sick sort of dream, like his memory is torturing him with things he can’t change and things he can’t stop.

He’s never felt this helpless and powerless with Stiles before. Stiles always added, never subtracted. He always thought that they were stronger with Stiles’ mind, with his words on their side. But here he is, sitting next to someone who could change Isaac’s reality with one word.

When he looks into Stiles’ eyes, he sees what he already knows. That Stiles can’t live in fear of himself any longer, that he had lived in fear of himself since the nogitsune, since Scott was bitten because of a decision  _ he _ had made. Isaac sees that this fear wouldn’t be survived again.

Control is what Stiles needs, and Isaac will gladly give it.

“Anything,” Isaac starts, his voice rough. He lets Stiles go. “I’ll give you anything you need.” He pauses when Stiles’ mouth opens slightly in surprise. “Do what you have to do,” he finishes.

Stiles turns away, facing the windscreen and the road stretching in front of them. He wipes his tears carelessly and stares at his hands.

The air is thickening, and Isaac swallows down on a lump in his throat. It’s too much - he doesn’t have Stiles’ strength (he doesn’t even have Derek’s strength, that was taken from him too) and his fingers are trembling. 

The air sharpens with cold and Stiles doesn’t have  _ control _ and something could go wrong at any minute - but there are warm fingers grabbing his own, a warm palm pressed up against him, and the pressure in his chest eases.

They share this moment with anxious breath and concern, and Isaac squeezes his hand slightly.

“Do you want us to be there when you do it?” Isaac asks. His voice is soft; he doesn’t want to break this fragile moment.

Stiles shakes his head slightly, and he looks up at Isaac with sad determination shining through his eyes instead of his voice. Isaac can imagine what he’d say, how he’d say it.

Isaac turns their hands around and uses his other hand to run fingers down Stiles’ wrist. He’s learning him in that sad way that he learns people; with the intention of it being the first and last time.

“How about just me?” he asks, gentler still.

Stiles shakes his head again, this time with a slight hesitance.  _ I don’t want you to see this, _ is what he would probably say.

Isaac nods, and he’s relieved. Because making Morrell wake up is his best chance, and his best chance is going to kill him. Because Isaac has buried Erica’s body, seen Boyd’s blood on Derek’s claws, watched Allison talk through the blood on her lips. Because his parents are dead and he has buried enough people to darken his heart. He won’t watch Stiles drain himself, no matter how much he wants to believe Stiles will survive.

“Okay,” he says. His voice is stronger than him. “When will you do it?” 

Stiles taps the wheel with his other hand in thought. “I should do it now.” His words are careful and restrained with the fear of imperative. Isaac misses that voice.

Isaac’s grip on his fingers tightens. “I don’t want you to do this,” he tells him, because it doesn’t change anything.

Stiles’ other hand leaves the steering wheel to take Isaac’s free hand. He doesn’t say anything - he pushed his luck with that last sentence - but he doesn’t need to. His words are in his touch, in his stare, in the wry twist of his mouth.

“Can I -”

“ _ Yes _ ,” Stiles says, as though it were the one word he had been waiting to say. As though it were the only word he  _ could _ say, he  _ wanted _ to say.

Isaac wastes no time: he leans forward, captures Stiles’ face with a hand to his cheek, and pauses. He savours the moment -  _ their _ breath,  _ their _ intimacy,  _ their _ moment - and there’s nothing but the hard and fast beat of their hearts to interrupt it.

It’s as though he reads Isaac’s mind because Stiles lays his hand flat against Isaac’s chest. Not stopping him, but knowing him.

It’s Stiles who closes the gap between them, who fits their mouths together and tastes of inevitability. It was always going to come to this, the softness of Stiles’ lips, his fingers curling around Isaac’s arm. His breath is a fragile thing and yet he shares it with Isaac, and Isaac presses for more. He deepens the kiss with no hesitance.

When they stop - the passage of time being irrelevant now that Isaac finally has this - they only break apart to rest their foreheads against each other. Stiles is slightly out of breath, his fingers tightening on Isaac’s arm. His mouth is pressed into a thin line, an expression Isaac has come to understand as him holding back one of his trademark sarcastic remarks, and Isaac traces his mouth with daring fingertips until it smooths out.

“That was fun,” he says. His voice is faux-casual, and he follows it up with a hushed, “We should do it again.” It’s a silent plea: Stiles has to come back.

Stiles pulls away and takes a deep breath. It’s even and relaxed. His hands rest lightly on the wheel. Everything about him is calm. He gives Isaac a small, hopeful smile before waving his hand at the door.

Isaac gets out of the jeep. He doesn’t want to see what happens next.

 

 

 

Stiles starts up the Jeep, refusing to look out the window at Isaac. If he does, he's afraid he won’t be strong enough to leave. He feels the fear bubbling up from the pit of his stomach already, and if he thinks about it too much he'll never be able to keep it down there. It'll flood his whole body and paralyze him better than any Kanima venom.

He doesn't have time to engage the first gear that his dad's cruiser comes out of nowhere to cut the Jeep's path, skidding to a stop. Stiles yelps, thoroughly pissed at the speed his dad was driving at. Also, everything about Isaac and fear and leaving applies to his dad; he already feels his resolve crumbling.

It's not that he didn't think at all about his father when he decided to drive alone to Nevada to pull out his little potentially deadly stunt, it's just that he figured his father would be the only one to try and actively stop him -and succeed in doing so.

Now, as he watches his father get out of the cruiser and stomp angrily to the driver's door of the Jeep, images of an empty house and whiskey bottles assault his mind, and he feels like puking. Then the Sheriff opens the door with strength that would have ripped it off its hinges had he been a werewolf, grabs a fistful of Stiles' shirt to haul him out of the driver’s seat and pushes him against the side of the car.

Stiles sees Isaac enter his peripheral vision. He can't help the realization that Isaac is probably concerned about what the Sheriff could do to his son in anger. He thinks of old Lahey and the freezer, and how if Scott hadn't been bitten...

Then he's in a bone crushing hug, and thoughts of the man he loves being dead (lips as blue as his still open eyes) are pushed to the back of his mind, stored somewhere his nightmares can easily access.

“ You stupid, idiotic kid,” Stiles hears his dad whisper and it leads to him letting out a low whine, fingers going to the back of his dad's Sheriff's jacket and clinging for dear life. He would be embarrassed by the sobs tearing their way out of his throat, but his father saw him in worse states than that.

“ Kid, listen,” the Sheriff takes a step back, hands still on Stiles' shoulders, and Stiles is ready to nod when his dad will ask him not to leave, ready to find a way to lose his voice permanently because if there's one thing that always kept him from being suicidal it's his father asking him to stay, “if you do this, you don't do it alone, you hear me?”

Stiles' eyes snap to his father's, forgetting about knives and blood and Derek telling him  _ I'll rip your throat out with my teeth _ while his mind tries to adjust.

“ I don't care that you don't want any of us here,” his dad continues and Stiles wonders, how does he kno– oh, Scott, who's conveniently out of sight but never far enough to stop taking care of Stiles, “I'm coming. Even if you don't want anybody else, I'm coming, alright kiddo? I don't want– if there's any chance you– I want us to be ready to do whatever it takes to bring you back.”

Stiles nods. He's still crying, feels like he never stopped since he got in the car, but he nods. Turns to Isaac, who shrugs and smiles valiantly. The stupid scarf wearing fucker will come, if Stiles asks him to, and god Stiles loves him so much for it. Because he knows, he knows what this does to Isaac but he's so brave he would come and watch him die.

Except Stiles draws the line right there, and he tells as much to his father by text, that they won't go with him in the room, that they'll stay out and wait and if anything happens they'll let nurses and doctors handle it but they don't see him like this. He won't be another nightmare for them, another loved one whose last breath is forever engraved behind their eyelids. He doesn't want to think about Lydia feeling it to the marrow of her bones, and screaming like she did in the old corridors of Oak Creek.

That's how he ends up in the backseat of the Jeep, his dad driving and Scott in the passenger seat. Isaac is next to him and they're not talking, the silence in the car is almost oppressing but also a relief. He was ready to go alone but now there’s a hand in his, fingers intertwined with his, and it’s the only thing keeping him together. He's so lost he's not even sure if the rest of the Pack is coming or not.

When he takes a trembling breath, Isaac’s hand tighten its grip and Stiles hears him slide towards him until they're pressed together. Stiles leans on him, doesn't realize how cold he's feeling inside until Isaac’s arms come around him and his warmth is engulfing him. Stiles is distantly aware of his father's glances in the rear-view mirror.

Everyone must be wondering how they went from insults to kiss (singular, and Stiles hopes to put the 'es' at the end of the word but neither of them is ready to do that until they see this through). Stiles has just been good at hiding his feelings. He can't help but still be surprised that it could go both ways, that Isaac could want him too. There were signs, he knows, but–

They're at the hospital. Stiles moves like he’s in a dream so he lets his father take the lead. He's kind of numb and faintly shaking. 

Deaton appears -so he came too- and talks to the nurse at the front desk, says he's the patient’s brother, shows her evidences of it that Stiles doesn't really care about even if it's probably some secret from the man's past. 

Stiles doesn’t remember walking up the corridors and taking the elevator, finds himself staring at a closed door, number 215.

He can't say goodbye, he can't say anything. He can't offer reassurances, words of love. He can't even face them because he needs to get on the other side of this door and he can't if he sees them ready to say goodbye, looking at him like it’s the last time. He needs hope, he needs to believe that it'll be okay because isn't magic all about belief?

He opens the door, walks in, hand still in Isaac’s for as long as they can keep the connection between them. It tugs a little when their arms extend completely and Stiles barely takes a break in his steps before the last one. The one that makes his hand drop back at his side, air feeling cold on the skin warmed by Isaac's.

He's alone, now, he's alone even before he hears the door closing. He blocks out the sniffles that mean they're crying. In the bed, Morrell is quiet. The machines are not, where they beep to indicate she's still alive. A screen shows her brain activity.

He thinks about how she's supposed to give him his life back and clings to it, the idea of life. He thinks about how she's someone's sister, and that if everything else fails he'll at least give that back. He thinks about druids and balance and he thinks a life for a life and he closes his eyes.

“ Morrell is completely healed and wakes up,” he says, then opens his eyes at the same time as she does, machines going wild. He just has time to lock eyes with her, hear her surprised “Stiles?” before he's doubling over, searing pain in his chest keeping him for even screaming.

The world going black is a relief. He doesn't even feel himself falling. 

 

 

_ It happened so fast _ .

It didn’t take them long to get back to Beacon Hills, or maybe time works differently when Isaac is measuring it by the rise and fall of Stiles’ chest. It’s a fragile thing to measure time with.

Scott is waiting for them outside Deaton’s, his eyes wet and wide because Stiles is the axis his world spins on. He doesn’t say anything as they carry him inside, but he rests his hand on Isaac’s shoulder.

Isaac’s pushed gently out of the way, and Morrell is standing over him. Irrational anger makes his fingers clench. It’s easy to blame Morrell for everything when she’s done nothing wrong. When she’s untouched by everything.

The sheriff steps back but his eyes are fierce and his mouth is pressed into a tight line as though he was forcing himself not to explode.

Morrell’s fingers entwine with Stiles’ and she exhales in shock. “We haven’t got much time. Alan,” she says sharply. “Take his hand. He needs all the energy you can give him right now.”

Her voice isn’t smooth and sensible, it isn’t annoyingly passive and removed from everything; she’s frantic and it’s relieving to know that she  _ does _ , in fact, experience human emotions.

Morrell’s fingers fly over the collection of jars in Deaton’s cupboards. Isaac turns his attention to Stiles. 

He’s still, as though he were dead and though Isaac’s senses are telling him otherwise - that his heart is beating faster than it should but it’s still  _ beating _ , that his breath is slowing down but it  _ exists _ \- he is torn between reaching out and finding comfort in the living warmth of his skin and being afraid to touch in case his fingertips taste the coldness of the almost-dead.

Scott wipes his sleeve over his eyes. “He’s going to be fine,” he says, but his assertive tone is watered down and scared.

Stiles still doesn’t move.

“ _ Scott _ ,” Morrell snaps. She lifts Stiles’ right arm up and pushes down a sleeve to bare his forearm. “Bite him.”

“ _ What _ ?” Isaac holds a hand out to stop Scott, just as the sheriff grabs Scott’s arm to pull him back. “That could  _ kill  _ him! It seems rather counter-productive seeing as we brought you here to  _ save him _ !”

Morrell turns her impatient glare onto Isaac. “Scott’s venom will give Stiles a jumpstart to fight the curse.” She holds up a jar of something that looks lighter than mountain ash. “This will give his power a jumpstart to fight the effects of the bite.”

Isaac laughs but it’s short and harsh, and Scott flinches. “Of course, that makes perfect sense,” he mutters. 

“What are the risks?” Scott asks.

“I don’t have  _ time _ -”

“The risks, Marin,” the sheriff’s authoritative voice rings out. 

She sighs. “The bite won’t take because of his power as an emissary. If I don’t apply this ash immediately to the bite, the bite will kill him.”

Scott doesn’t say anything else, and Isaac drops his arm so he can make it to Stiles’ side. His eyes are glowing red as he bites his arm, but he’s gentle about it, his shoulders tense with the urgency in the air.

Morrell pushes him to the side the moment his lips leave Stiles’ skin, but she moves too fast and the jar slips through her fingers.

Isaac could have watched the jar fall; it would have been mere seconds before the contents spilled on the floor and those were mere seconds that they didn’t have on their side.

He reaches out, his reflexes slowing the world around him enough to grab the jar in one confident motion, uncap it in another, and dump the contents of the jar on the bite.

Morrell presses down on the powder, rubbing it around the bite, and Stiles gasps, his eyes flying open and his limbs ready to displace the powder with movement.

Isaac holds down his arm steadily. His heart is beating as fast as Stiles’ heart, his free hand shaking before he grabs Stiles’ shoulder to steady it.

Stiles’ skin is warm under his fingertips. He struggles for a few moments, disorientated and wild, before calming down as he takes in his surroundings.

“What-” He swallows the word before it could form a sentence and Isaac lets him go. He winces when he rises, and brushes the bite with gentle fingers. The ash and blood sticks to them.

There’s a long moment of held breath and clenched fingers. 

“Say something,” Isaac says quietly. “An imperative.”

Stiles shakes his head, not looking at anything but the bite. His heartbeat speeds up.

“Something harmless,” Scott urges.

Morrell is studying Stiles with fond sadness. “Nothing is harmless, Scott. He knows that.” She takes a step closer to Stiles. “But it’s safe, Stiles. I promise.”

Stiles’ breathing quickens, and Isaac can’t say whether from hope or fear but in an instant Stiles is pushing himself off the table and pushing at Isaac’s shoulder, walking past them all.

His dad catches him by the arm at the door. They stare at each other and Isaac supposes the Stilinskis have learned to communicate without words when words fail to express their emotions (his own father replaced words with actions and maybe that’s why the lose of Stiles’ voice hits Isaac so hard that he hasn’t been able to draw a breath properly).

Stiles pats his father’s shoulder and the sheriff returns it before Stiles exits. 

The room is flat without him, as though he took a hurricane with him when he left and they’re left with still air.

 

 

Stiles just needs fresh air and space. The pressure is just– he can't deal with it, the expectant stares of  _ come on, say something Stiles _ , yeah, ignore the trauma of the past -fuck, the past how much?- and say some freaking thing.

They don't understand, no one understands what it was like; from words that escaped his mouth to words with purpose, none of it ever worked right. Morrell knows, but then she doesn't understand either because she probably had time to learn enough to sidestep the side effects so it's only theoretical for her. Stiles is alone in this, always alone.

The sound of the door opening again and slowly closing jerks him out of his spiral of bad thoughts, and now he wonders what everyone said after he left. He's glad for human hearing: he doesn't really want to know.

It's Isaac that followed, of course. He always follows and it doesn't leave room for Stiles to believe that their kiss was only a pity thing. A part of Stiles wants to believe that Isaac just humored him, that it was a just-in-case kind of one time thing. It would make the fear easier to manage.

Because before, he was focused on not talking. On not changing reality, on the prospect of dying just to find his voice and freedom back. But now, in the light of survival, it's just him and Isaac and the small touches they shared. Their kiss. And Stiles is terrified that he imagined it, or that it won't work now that he hypothetically can talk again or, hell, that he made it happen while he was asleep and dreaming of blond curls and blue eyes.

But out of everyone, Isaac seems to be the best at reading Stiles, not counting his own father. Scott has the best knowledge of him but lacks the understanding. Isaac doesn't have years of experience and shared secrets but he always  _ knows _ . Like right now, when he gets in front of Stiles and says nothing, asks nothing.

Stiles opens his mouth and closes it a few times, clears his throat. “Do you...,” he starts, can't finish even if it's only a question and it's not supposed to have any effect anyway. But habits are hard to lose.

“ You can't make me love you,” Isaac declares. Stiles flinches back, looks down, but a warm hand on his shoulder makes him look back up into eyes devoid of the usual walls of derision and anger guarding his soul. “You can't make me love you, Stiles,” he repeats, “because I already do.”

Stiles eyes widen, his heart hammering in his chest. His body reacts on instinct a few seconds ahead of his brain that is still trying to make sense of what he just heard. He can't wrap his mind over the words that are so direct they can't be misread. His mouth hangs open but nothing comes out. He used to have replies for everything, but even back then love was something he was never prepared to receive.

“ I love you,” Isaac continues, “and two years ago I'd never have thought that one day I'd miss your voice. I– I miss your jokes and I even miss those stupid fights we had. You're the only one who can match up with me when it comes to words,” he wetly chuckles, tears pooling in his eyes, “except maybe Derek when he's talking, to be fair, but–” he looks at the sky and sighs before looking at Stiles again, “but he's not  _ you _ .”

Stiles lets out a choked sob, sounding painfully raw even to his own ears. He smiles through the tears. “I love you too,” he whispers, voice hoarse from disuse and emotion. These words are truly harmless, they can’t hurt even himself now that he has Isaac's own confession echoing in his mind.

They close their eyes and lean until their foreheads touch, stay like that for a few minutes.

“ I'm scared,” Stiles breathes out, and he pulls back, nibbling at his lower lip.

“ Try something small,” Isaac confidently says, and when Stiles shakes his head negatively he adds, “I trust you, okay? So I know nothing will happen. We broke it. We broke the curse.”

Stiles can't stop the shaking that takes over his whole body, of the fresh wave of tears that roll down his cheeks. Isaac takes him in his arms. “Okay, maybe it's still a little early for that. Take your time.”

Stiles grips the fabric of Isaac's shirt and closes his eyes. He's never been one to take his time. Not even after the Nogitsune when he felt like giving up, he just jumped back into life and smiles and laughs, pushing back down all the bad things. It's not a healthy way of coping, he knows, but it's just who he is and he'll wait as long as he can before dealing with those feelings. He intends to do the same now.

So Stiles takes a deep breath; against the skin of Isaac's neck, making the wolf shiver and press closer to him, Stiles says “We're okay, now.” He believes it. “I'm not alone.”   
  


**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments always greatly appreciated guys :)


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